


I'm Selfish (I'm Obscene)

by Anonymous



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Come Swallowing, Creampie, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Somnophilia, dubcon, in that order
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2020-03-09 08:23:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18913183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: "M' never gonna like anyone else's drinks," Peter mumbles, equally drunk on sleep and Bailey's. "You've ruined me.""I haven't ruined you," Tony says, thinking,yet.





	I'm Selfish (I'm Obscene)

**Author's Note:**

> warnings for severe dubcon, it's peter getting drunk and tony fucking him without ~~any~~ clear consent  
> so if safe & enthusiastic consent is a must for ur fanfic needs, pls click off now~  
> as is the case with my other fics involving Peter, he's kind of up to interpretation. he's not explicitly based off of a specific Peter- MCU, 616, Garfield, etc. while writing this I imagined him to be underage but as it's never specifically stated (I don't think), his age can be up to you!  
> one things for sure tho tonys a piece of shit lmao

The thing is, Tony’s not actually that awful of a guy.

Objectively speaking, some of the things he says, some of the things he does- well, people take them out of context to paint a picture of a much worse, much more disgusting person.

But there’s absolutely nothing wrong with inviting the kid over to his for the night, every once in a while. And if “every once in a while” means “about once a week”, well. The only people who’d notice that detail are people who are way too invested in Tony’s personal life.

There’s absolutely nothing wrong with giving the kid a few drinks- because listen, he’s gonna be drinking anyway, and Tony would much rather the kid drink under his roof, under his supervision. And he’d much rather the kid drink something _good._ So sure, it’s against the law, but objectively speaking he’s doing a service to the world by pouring out the sweetest rum punch this side of the Atlantic every week and handing it off to a kid who can’t even drive.

And there’s _absolutely_ nothing wrong with letting the kid snuggle up to him whenever he finds the chance. This one he’s adamant about. He can see arguments being made for the other two; he’s taking away the kid’s time with his blood family, or he’s- yes- breaking a literal law. But this?

He’s not the one who initiates it, okay?

Peter’s the one who curls up in his lap on the couch, or on the bed, whenever he sees the opportunity. Peter’s the one who brings a set of pajamas- or ‘forgets’ to and borrows Tony’s clothes instead.  Peter’s the one who crosses the distance between them when the time’s crawled to night and they’re out of the kitchen, out of the lab, winding down on the couch. Peter’s the one who’ll nudge and adjust until his face pushes up soft and needy against Tony’s chest. Peter’s the one who’ll hook his fingers around Tony’s shirt and tug at it while he yawns. Peter’s the one who’ll sneak his legs until they’re tangled with Tony’s, legs so short that his ankles end up on Tony’s shins.

So really. _Really._ Tony’s not the one at fault.

“You like it?”

Peter takes a cautious sip. He nods, then hesitates and shudders a little. Tony snorts, leaning on the couch armrest. He crosses his legs, feet propped on the ottoman in front of them. “Yeah," Tony says, “it’ll do that.”

“What is that?” Peter looks into the glass curiously, as if he’ll find a label swimming in the drink.

“Bailey’s,” Tony says. “Irish Cream.”

“It’s…” Peter trails off. Tony watches, eyes dark, as Peter licks his lips. “Nice,” Peter decides. “A little- yknow, alcohol-y. But it’s got a good aftertaste.” He gulps down another mouthful of his chocolate-cream drink. “I like this,” he says, swallowing it down. “I really like this one.”

“Thought you might.” Tony reaches out to mess his hair up- one of his favorite pastimes. Peter’s hair has just a hint of curl in it; not enough to give him real curls, but enough to make it stick out in different directions when he hasn’t brushed or washed it in a day. At Tony’s hand in his hair, Peter sighs, relaxing a little further into the couch. Tony watches as his shoulders drop, as his eyes go a little stupid.

“What?” Peter says, laughing a little. When Tony just shrugs and says nothing, Peter sticks out his tongue. _“What?”_

“Nothing, kitty-cat,” Tony says, flopping a lock of Peter’s hair between his eyes. Peter bats it out of his face, sputtering.

“What did you just call me?” He almost spills his drink, but saves it at the last second. “I’m not a _cat.”_

“Well,” Tony says defensively. “You curl up like one. You like it when I scratch your head. And-” He nods to the glass in Peter’s hand, “apparently you like cream.”

Peter snorts. “You’re so weird.”

“Comes with being a genius.” Tony sighs melodramatically. “It’s the cross I have to bear.”

Peter brings his drink to his lips again, and when the glass pulls away, it’s empty.

“Whoa,” Tony says, “that was fast.”

“Was I not supposed to drink the whole thing?” Peter asks cheekily, wiggling the empty glass.

“Hey, where do you think you are?” Tony gestures around, at the rest of the living room that’s adorned with art, paintings, drink trays. “You’re in my house, kiddo. No worrying about what you’re ‘supposed to do’, all right?”

Tony’s a simple man. He speaks the love language of gifts, which is a convenient language if you have millions of dollars to your name. But he gets a rush of pleasure whenever one of his gifts is well received. And now he watches Peter lick the inside rim of his glass, desperate for more of Tony’s present, and smug pride curls in his stomach. 

Peter must sense it, because he twists his neck to look up at Tony with big wide eyes, and says, “Do you have more?”

Two more drinks later, Peter’s giggling himself silly leaning on the kitchen counter, seconds away from dropping Tony’s favorite glass on the floor. Tony swoops in, snatches it out of his hand, and sets it on a shelf too high for Peter to reach- at least without climbing the walls.

“Whoa there,” he says, catching Peter’s chest as he stumbles forward. “Maybe three was a little too much.”

 _“No,”_ Peter insists. He always gets so stubborn when he drinks, so thirsty for opportunities to prove himself. Not that he’s ever needed to prove himself to Tony before. Then again, not that he’s ever known he’s never needed to prove himself to Tony.

Peter tries to take a step forward, but he stops himself short, slapping his hand over his mouth. His face sinks, going a little green.

“Here,” Tony says a minute later, pushing a glass of water into his hands. “Slowly,” he says another minute later, mopping up Peter’s shirt with the edge of his own. “Or you’re gonna make yourself hurl.”

“M’ not gonna _hurl,”_ Peter mumbles, but obediently sips at his water. “Just say throw-up. Or puke.”

“What’s wrong with hurl?” Tony presses a hand to his chest in mock-defense, which makes Peter smile. He lets his eyes linger on Peter’s lips as they press against the water glass, shiny and loose and pink. Peter downs the rest of his water slowly but surely, and soon enough he’s setting another empty glass on the counter beside the rest.

“Feeling better?” he asks gently, setting a hand on Peter’s shoulder.

“A lot,” Peter says. He nods, and then clutches his head. Tony runs his fingers through Peter’s hair again, and they come back soft with grease.

“I think you need a shower,” he says.

\---

He stands guard outside the bathroom, listening for any bangs or thuds. The last thing he needs is for Peter to pass out in his own bathroom. Carrying Peter has never been an issue, but carrying an unconscious soaking wet Peter- well, okay, it still wouldn’t be much of an issue.

The water starts and he hears a little fumbling, the shuffle of clothes being stripped, the clink of a belt buckle against bathroom tile. He holds his breath- he doesn’t know what for, but he does- and the steady sound of the spray shifts.

Peter moans.

Tony’s knees buckle just a little. He presses his ear harder against the bathroom door as Peter’s voice crawls up and down, loose and luxurious under the water pressure. Again, Peter moans, but this time he adds a _yes_ and an _oh my god._

Tony’s hand is between his legs before he can stop it, grabbing his dick over his pants. He hardly ever bothers with boxers or briefs around the house, especially when the only thing on his to-do list is drink and entertain his favorite spider. And yes, that _sounds_ bad. But he’s never done anything- and he’ll continue that trend for a good long while, thank you very much.

He gives his dick a comforting squeeze- Peter will be curled up in bed next to him before he knows it. And no, he won’t jerk off over the kid’s face or anything- he’s not a monster. But Peter has a habit of snuggling a little too close, mumbling and moaning in his sleep, tucking his legs together with Tony’s. It’s not Tony’s fault how his own body reacts. So really, he’ll be doing Peter a service by taking care of his problem while Peter’s still asleep- and wiping away the evidence before he wakes. That’s who it’s always for- Peter. Obviously.

All the same, Peter’s shower-moans send his dick jumping, impatient, hungry. Tony sighs, strokes it once and then twice through his sweats, and then lets go. He’s just going to have to wait, like always.

Peter drags his shower on for far too long- or far too short, Tony can’t decide. It’s like smelling a French bakery- a delectable preview that’s almost too good, that only makes his mouth water and his hands itch to grab what he wants, _needs_. But eventually the shower water stops and Tony jumps away from the bathroom door. The energy shifts and his cock seems to realize, falling back down in wait.

“Tony?” he hears.

“What’s up?”

“I, uh,” Peter says. “I wasn’t planning on staying overnight.” Tony’s heart leaps, and sure enough- “Can I borrow something of yours?”

His hand is on his collar before he says the words, his own shirt is off his back before he opens his mouth. “Sure,” he says, grabbing a pair of boxers off the floor. They’re not dirty- used once, maybe, and then tossed aside. He folds them anyway, along with his shirt, and knocks on the bathroom door.

It opens a crack and Peter’s face blinks out, flushed pink, hair dripping on the floor. He beams at Tony and snatches the clothes out of his hands.

“Is this,” he says, looking suddenly at Tony’s bare chest. “Yours?”

“You asked for my clothes,” Tony says, raising an eyebrow and keeping his gaze firmly focused on Peter’s face. The door blocks everything from Peter’s chest down, he knows, but his eyes can’t help but want to look anyway.

“You’re such a lawyer sometimes.” Peter laughs, and closes the door. A minute later he emerges, Tony’s shirt ballooning over him like a pillowcase. It catches one of his shoulders but not the other, and it hangs low enough that he might as well not even be wearing the boxers.

Tony’s mouth waters.

“Is this okay?” Peter asks, turning slightly to look at his back.

“More than,” Tony assures him, watching the way Peter’s bare shoulder rolls as he twists his back, lifts his arm.

Peter laughs, more through his nose than out his mouth, delighted at the fact that Tony’s shirt dwarfs him so completely. Tony’s not the biggest man around- he can think of three other guys off the top of his head who would absolutely destroy him in a shoulder-measuring contest- but compared to Peter he looks like Bruce on a bad day. But Peter laughs all the same, and on his turn back around he trips over his own foot, arms flailing.

Tony catches him easily, holds him upright. “Come on,” he says, “up on the bed. I’d rather you not fall asleep on my bathroom floor.”

“Me too,” Peter agrees, nodding furiously and letting Tony lead him up to the gigantic bed he calls home.

It’s routine at this point. Tony settles himself on his back, shoulders up against the headboard. Peter crawls up beside him, rests his head on Tony’s chest, and scoots his legs so they’re resting on the other side of Tony’s, not crossing that line just yet. He yawns, cheeks still flushed bright red, and Tony’s heart twists as he watches Peter’s lips stretch open, so wide, before closing back again.

“You’ve,” Peter mumbles sleepily, “ruined me. M’ never gonna like anyone else’s drinks, just yours.”

“I haven’t ruined you,” he says, thinking, _yet._ His hand finds its way back into Peter’s hair and he scratches lazily, fingers dragging against Peter’s scalp. Peter gives a soft noise almost like a purr, pushing his head back into the touch.

“Well,” Peter hums, “you’re gonna, one of these-” he breaks off, yawning, and shifts, legs riding up against Tony’s now, “days.”

“We’ll see,” is all Tony says to that. Peter’s eyes slide shut, and Tony lets his gaze wander. Peter’s so much more flexible than Tony remembers ever being himself; his little legs bend and twist in ways that honestly make Tony worry the kid’s gonna pop a hip one of these days. But Peter doesn’t seem to find it uncomfortable, with his legs bent and tangled together with Tony’s.

They’re almost baby-smooth, but he does have a soft layer of hair over them. It glows in the right light, almost golden. His bare shoulder lies inches away from Tony’s face, and it takes a surprising- well, not that surprising- amount of concentration not to lean down and touch his lips to the skin. His eyelashes are long, almost too long, but they twitch as his eyes move under their lids. He might just be asleep already, Tony muses.

His hand finds its way to Peter’s back, to the soft fabric of his own shirt over Peter’s skin. Peter sighs again, happy and content, and Tony tucks his fingers under the cotton to get his palm on Peter’s skin. His shirt rides up, caught on Tony’s wrist, and Tony can’t help but let his eyes wander-

Peter’s bare ass looks straight back at him, milky-soft and tantalizing.

Tony’s breath catches in his throat and for a moment he’s completely still, staring. Then the moment passes and his neck twitches as he strains to look at the empty bathroom, door blown wide open. Sure enough, his boxers are crumpled in a pile on the tile floor. Had Peter known they’d been used and rejected them on the grounds that they were dirty? Or had he just wanted to go without?

Peter makes a small, impatient sound- perhaps not all the way asleep after all- and pushes his lower back against Tony’s hand. His ass moves with the rest of him, arching back. Tony’s breath leaves him in a rush, as does the awkward stillness. His cock, tired of waiting, leaps back up against the front of his sweats. Peter’s thigh lies inches away, tempting, teasingly close.

Dizzy with want, Tony rubs his thumb over the small of Peter’s back, eyes still fixated downwards. He shifts his hips so the bulge in his sweats won’t be quite so obvious if Peter happens to open his eyes and look down. It’s a fruitless attempt; there’s already a damp spot straight in the middle that Peter’s bound to notice if he wakes, whether or not there’s a bulge accompanying it.

Peter nudges his nose against Tony’s bare chest, warm breath rushing over him in soft pants. Maybe Peter’s more like a puppy after all, Tony thinks, watching his mouth fall open a little, a faint trail of spit shining in the dim light of his room. But Tony’s always been more of a cat person.

“Pete,” he whispers, but Peter’s breath doesn’t change. “Kiddo,” he tries again. “Kitten.”

Nothing.

Tony’s heart _sings._

He slides his hand down further, until, _finally,_ his palm lies flat over the soft curve of Peter’s ass. It’s baby-fresh from the shower, warm and soft in his hand, and he can’t help giving it a squeeze. Peter sighs in his sleep, mouth still open against Tony’s chest. Tony thumbs over the outside of Peter’s cheek, then digs his thumbnail into the skin, just barely.

Peter gasps, legs twitching. His thigh jerks up, pressing itself between Tony’s legs. Tony bites his tongue to keep himself from making a sound as his cock finally gets the pressure it’s been longing for. He tilts his hips, brushing the underside of his cock against Peter’s bare thigh; even through his sweatpants it feels ungodly good. Peter’s thigh pushes back in turn, almost like it knows what it’s doing, and his skin catches on Tony’s sweatpants, tugging them down.

The soft, wet head of Tony’s cock smears over Peter’s bare thigh and Tony can’t fight the whimper that crawls up his throat. His cock twitches happily, gushing a bead of precum out to ease the way. It shines obscenely, and Tony runs his tongue over his lips, unable to tear his eyes away.

Peter’s hips jerk again, and Tony’s fingers- almost forgotten, curled around the soft globe of Peter’s ass- slide, unbidden, between his cheeks until he hits resistance.

He freezes as his index finger hits that tight ring of muscle, unintended but not unwelcome. Peter doesn’t seem to notice; his lips fall a little further down Tony’s chest, leaving a steady trail of drool as he goes.

Tony presses the soft pad of his finger against the forbidden fruit- not pushing it in, just testing the waters. It’s a lazy circle, a slow, calculated movement. Peter’s skin is warm, still damp from the shower, and Tony sighs as the smell of cherry-almond soap hits him.

Tony doesn’t mean to- truly, he doesn’t. It’s not his own movements that do it, it’s Peter’s. It’s the motion of Peter pushing his ass back against the touch that sends Tony’s fingertip sliding past his rim, until his knuckle lands firmly inside.

He doesn’t breathe.

Peter moans in his lap, a hand grabbing at Tony’s chest. It finds nothing but bare skin, but it grabs anyway, blind and helpless and needy. Tony brings a shaking hand to Peter’s hair, runs his fingers through the strands. It always soothes him when he’s awake; maybe it’ll keep him asleep now.

He can only pray.

His fingertip twitches inside of Peter, and he feels the soft, wet walls of Peter’s hole press against him. His cock pulses in his lap, precum gushing out onto Peter’s thigh, dripping down onto the mattress beneath him. His hand twitches, itching to grab it- but he can’t take it away from Peter’s hair, not now.

Peter’s ass moves again, and Tony moves with it. His finger slides in, and in his sleep Peter bears down, hole sucking down every inch of Tony’s finger until there’s nothing left to give. Peter whines when the movement stops, breath hitching, almost sobbing. Tony feels hot breath and spit on his chest.

“I know,” he whispers. “I know, kitten.”

He curls his finger, swirls it in a circle, feels around Peter’s walls, looking for a reaction. The only one he gets is more of the same, Peter whining in his arms, moaning, drooling.

It’s easy as anything to get him to two fingers, and before Tony knows what he’s doing he’s buried them as deep as he can go, soft wet sounds echoing against his bedroom walls. The head of his cock nudges against Peter’s thigh one more time, and he can’t help it, he can’t, he--

He reaches for Peter’s hand.

It finds his own, and their fingers twine together, as if they were made to fit alongside one another. Tony gives them a squeeze, and Peter’s breathing slows. Peter smacks his lips, tongue darting out for just a fraction of a second- ruby-red, wet, hot- before it vanishes between his lips again.

Tony slowly but surely pulls Peter’s hand down, unlaces their fingers, and places Peter’s palm around his cock.

Peter’s fingers curl automatically, drawn to the soft heat.

Tony moans- he can’t help it, truly, he can’t. He bucks his hips and his cock slides, slick and wanting, inside Peter’s gentle fist. Precum slides down his shaft, eager and wet, and Peter’s fingers catch it in turn.

“Oh my god,” he breathes, shoving his hips forward with a little more force. Peter’s fingers tighten perfectly around his cock as he fucks it forward, once, then twice, then three times. He imagines the sight of coming right then and there, cum spilling onto Peter’s milky white thighs, baby smooth but for the peach fuzz, cum dripping down until it spills in a messy pool on the sheets.

The two fingers in Peter’s ass twitch. He slides them out slowly, and Peter whines, keening, nudging his nose hard against Tony’s chest.

“Shh,” Tony murmurs, “I know.”

And he presses a third fingertip against Peter’s hole.

This, too, Peter takes without hesitation. It feels like his hole draws Tony’s fingers in, sucks them down, swallows them, and before he knows it he’s got all three fingers buried inside Peter’s asshole, moving, feeling, fucking him.

Peter’s head slides down to Tony’s stomach, spit falling from his lips in a disgusting string, hanging in the air between his mouth and Tony’s skin. Tony pushes a hand in his hair and guides him down before he knows what he’s doing.

Peter, even unconscious, gets the gist. Tony’s cock in his hand, he tilts it up to meet his mouth as Tony pushes down on his head, and Tony’s cock slides past his lips, inch by inch, until Tony feels his cockhead bump against the back of Peter’s throat.

“Fu- _uck,”_ he gasps. Peter’s tongue slides right down along the underside of his cock, wet and warm and clever like he’d always imagined it to be, sliding up and down his length. His lips close around the base of Tony’s cock, nose pressed up firm and hot against Tony’s skin.

Tony’s hips jerk. Peter makes a soft choking sound, and cum shoots down his throat.

Tony shudders as it happens- he feels his cock twitch again and again, feels Peter’s throat convulse instinctually as sweet, warm milk pours down his tongue, as he swallows it, drinks it down. He hasn’t come as hard as this in months, hasn’t had a mouth on him in longer, and his eyes roll back in their sockets as he feels it again, the rush of orgasm overtake him, cum spilling out all over again.

Peter’s ass clenches hard around his fingers, and he hears- and feels, Jesus Christ- the kid moaning in his lap. A second later and Peter’s hips jerk in tandem.

Something warm and wet lands on Tony’s shin, and that alone is enough to send his cock back to full attention again, swelling and filling up Peter’s mouth like it was made to fit there.

He grabs Peter’s hair and yanks him off, heart thundering, suddenly desperate. Peter’s just come untouched, in Tony’s bed, on Tony’s leg, and the distant lazy _want_ that’s swum inside his mind for so, so long finally emerges as a _need._ Peter’s hair in his hand, he tugs.

Peter’s eyes open slowly, dreamily. He doesn’t focus his gaze on Tony at first, and even when he does his eyes are glazed. “Mister Stark,” he mumbles, confused. “S’ it morning?”

“No,” Tony says, grabbing under his arms and pulling him up. Stumbling over his own limbs, Peter lets Tony handle him until he’s got Peter in his lap, one leg over either side of Tony’s waist.

“Why’re you,” Peter says, “awake?”

“Can’t sleep.” Tony reaches under Peter’s cock- which is sagging now, still dripping with the last few drops of cum, and he feels for that soft, beautiful hole. Peter gasps, eyes rolling back again.

“Mister- Stark,” he pants, an arm falling back to catch himself. “That-” He sucks in a breath as Tony’s fingertips push his hole open, confident, sure. _“Feelsgood,”_ he mumbles, and his eyes fall shut again.

Tony takes his cock in hand and pushes the head, fat and wet and hungry, so fucking hungry, up against Peter’s hole. It nudges past the rim slowly but surely, Peter’s hole opening up once more to swallow down what Tony feeds it.

“Cmon, kitten,” Tony breathes, as Peter’s whole body tenses above him. “You can do it.”

Peter goes boneless, falls, and Tony reaches his arms up to catch him. Peter’s eyes don’t open this time, his mouth hangs open, soft and lax, and Tony slowly lowers him down on his cock.

It’s slow. Peter wakes up a few times, eyes fluttering open and words half-forming, but each time he falls back down, his eyelids too heavy to keep open. And then, finally, he’s sat flush on top of Tony. Tony tugs him forward so he’s lying on his stomach, and if his cock weren’t buried inside of Peter’s ass right now, it might be like any other night- Tony on his back, Peter on his stomach, asleep and gorgeous and innocent.

Tony fucks his hips.

Peter rolls forward with the movement, completely unconscious. Tony tries again, still nothing.

Peter’s hole doesn’t know what it wants- it trades between going soft and lax with sleep, or else tightening up at the sudden movement. It sucks him in, squeezes around him, and Tony just about melts with the sensation. He fucks his hips again, and then again, until he’s found a rhythm, and Peter’s bouncing in his lap, asleep, completely relaxed.

Tony keeps one hand on Peter’s hips and tucks another between them, until he finds it- Peter’s tiny, beautiful cock, all hard and wet like he knew it would be. It fits in the palm of his hand, and Tony closes his fingers around it.

Peter gasps at that, eyelids twitching, but he still doesn’t open them. His lips part against Tony’s chest yet again.

“Yeah?” Tony breathes, watching him pant, watching him drool. “You like that? That feel good, kitten?”

Peter’s tongue falls out of his mouth, lands on Tony’s chest. Tony fucks him a little harder, cock desperate, about to cum again. He jerks his fist over Peter’s cock, and Peter twitches in his lap, face tensing. And then finally, his eyes open. They’re still so glazed over, so confused, and as Tony gives his hips one particularly hard thrust, they widen, slightly crossed, searching for answers.

“I know,” Tony whispers. “Don’t worry. I’m gonna take care of you.”

“M’ster,” Peter’s mouth tries to say, but it’s cut off by a moan as Tony’s cock finally, finally hits that sweet spot. _“Stark-”_

“I _know,”_ Tony pants, “I know, kitten.”

It’s either the petname or the punch to his prostate that does it, but Peter howls. His cock jumps in Tony’s hand, spilling out over his fingers, over Tony’s stomach. He shudders in Tony’s arms, looking up at him with fucked-out eyes. They roll back in his head again and then he’s done, collapsed completely on Tony’s stomach.

Tony grabs his asscheeks, one in each hand, and pumps his hips as fast as he can- even like this, even asleep and fucked-out, Peter’s ass clenches around him so tight, so fucking tight-

Peter makes a sound, then. It’s soft, it’s not quite a whimper- the only way to describe it is-

It’s a _mewl._

Tony’s cock erupts.

He shoves his hips up as hard as he can, cum pulsing out of him in ropes, in waves, in whatever-the-fuck, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t care. All he knows is he’s coming, he’s coming, he’s seeing stars and Peter is in his lap mewling like a goddamn kitten, and his cock is buried in Peter’s asshole, filling it up with warm, sweet milk.

Peter’s lips press against his chest, and he falls.

* * *

When he wakes up, he realizes he’s still inside Peter.

It’s not the sunshine streaming through the blinds that wakes him, nor is it the sensation of too-much-stimulation around his cock. It’s not even the sound of the city waking up, cars screeching, birds calling, long off in the distance voices yelling.

No, what wakes him up is the _smell._

He chokes on it, and as the covers ruffle, the air kicks up and doses him with a fresh wave; stale sex, dried cum, sweat. He hates that it sends a rush of smug pleasure to his gut, he hates that he loves it, but by god he does.

Peter’s still asleep on Tony’s stomach, thoroughly knocked-out. Tony pets his hair softly as he shifts his hips awkwardly. His cock slips away mercifully quickly, and Peter’s face tightens ever so slightly. But soon enough the hard part is over, and Peter’s curling up even tighter, legs tucking up, almost in a fetal position on top of Tony.

He doesn’t wake up when Tony gently pushes him off and gets up to fetch a warm towel from the bathroom, when Tony slowly wipes his face, his legs, and his stomach clean- brushes the towel between his cheeks, washes away the stickiness, the mess, the smell.

He doesn’t wake up when Tony slides back into bed, covers them with a fresh, clean mattress- completely identical to the dirty one now in the laundry.

He doesn’t wake up when Tony presses a kiss to his forehead and tucks the blanket over them.

He just breathes in and out, at peace, while Tony holds him. Tony holds him, holds his soft, perfect hair, holds his bare shoulder, holds him as he breathes. Tony holds him and listens to his breath, sometimes silent and sometimes a low, content hum.

Tony holds him, and waits.

**Author's Note:**

> hey if ur a fan of peter parker getting fucked with various amounts of consent, u might like my other fics! (also anonymous, sorry)  
> if you also like spideypool u might like [You Put Me On A Shelf (and Kept Me For Yourself)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7851127/chapters/17926423)  
> the sequel to that one is starker: [Come Back and Look For Me (Look For Me When I Am Lost)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9542402/chapters/21577145)  
> i rlly gotta start making shorter titles for these bad boys huh
> 
> also shoutout to the person on omegle who inspired this, who cockteased the shit outta me and left right before tony was abt to finger him- this one's for u i love u ive been there too <3  
> if you want credit for some of peter's lines just let me know and ill add you in the beginning author's notes lol


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